


Midnight Ocean

by Konigsberg



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Domestic, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Family Secrets, First Time, Gentleness, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Eros and Psyche (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Mystery, Romance, Secret Identity, Self-Discovery, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:29:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29384892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Konigsberg/pseuds/Konigsberg
Summary: "Please consider what I’m about to say. Think of it as you return to your mother. You must put as much thought into it as you can. Will you? Please, promise me you will.”“Yes! Whatever it is, I’ll consider it.”“Eventually Lord Hades will have mercy upon you. He will. I know that must sound strange—the most severe of the gods showing mercy where his kindred won’t—but it’s the truth. The Olympians are more… unreliable. The only way I can see to protect the Underworld and in turn you and your mother is this: Bind yourself to me.” His hands tremble. He brushes his thumb along the crook of Zag’s throat, so very sweet, even when he’s rigid with tension. “Wed me.”Raised by his mother far away from both Olympus and the Underworld, a strange series of events leads Zagreus to meeting a faceless, nameless Chthonic god.
Relationships: Thanatos/Zagreus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 129
Kudos: 330





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You don't need to be familiar with the Eros & Psyche myth to understand what's happening—it might even be more enjoyable that way.
> 
> Sculptor of demons and of goddesses,  
> I chisel also an eidolon of love  
> in ebony, adorning him with black roses  
> that bear the thorns of pain and sorrow.  
>  _Eros of Ebony_ by Clark Ashton Smith

Zagreus’ childhood was full of life.

As a babe, his mother kept him swaddled and bound to her back as she tended the garden. If she needed a break, she’d tuck him in the arms of the olive trees to be kissed by the sunshine and rocked by the wind. When the time to plant came, she sat him by her side and pressed seeds between his pudgy fingers, murmuring their names with a smile as soft as the clouds. As soon as those seeds sprouted, so green and supple, she took him up on her hip and walked him from plant to plant to admire them as one would jewels. Laying with him in the grass, she taught him the magic of Gaia’s flesh and Zeus’ blessed rains.

As spring ripened with its fruits, she caught up falling petals to brush against his cheeks, whispering of life’s beauties. And once he was old enough, he’d sit perched in her lap as she shared the wonders of sweet figs and grapes and honeycomb. When she saw to the vegetables, he’d watch the little earthworms squirm and the sparrows flit about.

In many ways, he blossomed alongside those flowers, nurtured as much by the warmth of spring and summer as by his mother’s hand. Those months left his cheeks as pink as the dianthuses and his limbs strong from hoeing and tree-climbing. But he truly came alive in the autumn, when death drew near.

Early on, he came to see the beauty in the fading blooms and the sweet smell of their decay. He observed as his mother took her sickle to the barley, listened to the whispery sound of the blade cutting through air and stalk, entranced. When he found birds or toads limp beneath the olive trees, he’d bring them to his mother and plead that they bury them properly. Though the request always brought a certain sadness to her eyes, she would sweep his hair back from his forehead and help him all the same.

“Life and death are a cycle—a beautiful one,” she once murmured to him as they buried a little bag beneath the olive tree. “They will feed the tree that once fed them, and thanks to them it will go on to feed so many more.”

She turned to look at him and, in the many years since, Zagreus has not forgotten the tilt of her head, the furrow of her brow, or the glint of her eyes. Though he couldn’t name it, something there, held in her body and expression, took hold of his heart and held him still and waiting. “I have taught you much of life and growth,” she said thoughtfully. Between them, her hand caressed the cool, dry soil. There was dirt under her nails and caught beneath her ring. “But I fear I haven’t spoken enough of death.” She hesitated, holding her tongue, but still words spilled between them, shone through her eyes, wrote themselves in the lines of her mouth: _Despite your fascination_ , _despite these rituals you carry out_ , _despite your questions about Elysium and the gods of the dead_ , _and Death itself_.

A certain guilt struck him and settled in his lungs, thick and heavy like sap. It was unspoken, but he knew in some strange way that these were not things one should ask, and certainly not ask the way he did with bated breath and wide eyes. The scrolls his mother brought him depicted Death as a rotten creature if they bothered to mention him at all. If it was not an account of a great battle like those fought by Achilles or a tragedy such as that experienced by Theseus, death was not a topic to be discussed. And yet he found himself drawn to it like the flowers tilting their faces toward the sun, curious and eager.

She caught his hand in hers with a fierceness she’d never exhibited before. Her eyes pinned him to the spot. “Do you fear death, Zagreus?” There was no judgment in her voice, only sincerity and a raw need to _know_ —the same need Zagreus bore, the same hunger to understand the aphotic secrets the universe holds so close.

The question made him falter. His eyes strayed to the little mound between them. He thought of the flowers curling in on themselves, fading, crumbling. The little birds with eyes like pools and frail, unmoving wings. He thought of the scrolls and the repulsion etched across their pages as if even picturing Death’s pall was enough to make their authors tremble. Of Elysium, Tartarus, and honor.

Meeting her gaze once more, he answered, “No.” And then, for he sensed the wrongness of his sentiment, though it was nothing but true, he quickly said, “I’m sorry. It’s just so beautiful.”

“Oh, darling,” she whispered and drew him close with sure hands. “You needn’t apologize. Not for that.”

It was autumn with its tender deaths that made him feel most at home. For years, centuries, he questioned why. From boyhood to manhood, he was left wondering after his own nature for he was raised by Persephone, the embodiment of all things bright with new life, and yet what caught his heart was her shadow.

It plagues him now, as his quick feet crunch through the slush of snow and his heart rages against his bones. His uncertainty no longer tastes of guilt, but some bitterness he has never encountered before. He wants to examine it, but he’s unfamiliar with the forest through which he flees, and his panic sends him stumbling into trees just as often as the snow turning to water beneath his boots.

From behind him comes a roar that quivers through the air, silencing the cries of wolves and crooning of owls. It crawls down his spine and slithers through his middle, tying his stomach up in knots. His pursuer is a hunter of men and as such he is well-learned in the art of torture both mental and physical. This call is a reminder—a promise that he is still being trailed. It’s an attempt to agitate him to the point of slipping as if the fatigue isn’t enough.

He sucks in a great, searing breath and forces himself to press on.

Longing sinks its teeth through his chest and clings with such ferocity he can’t shake it. He wants his mother. He wants to hold her close and apologize. He wants to scream and curse and cry. The pain and hunger threading through his heart urge him to move faster.

By the time his feet falter, the fire has faded from the horizon and the sky has melted from the ebony of a moonless night to the fine gray of pearls. Distantly, his scalp throbs from the fist that curled through his hair hours ago. His skin goes hot and cold as if plagued by fever, but the adrenaline in his veins staves off the pain.

The wind whispers of a coming storm, stirring the snow already thick on the ground and whipping his cheeks pink. Is it his fault? Are the clouds rolling in brought by divine hands seeking blood?

Before Zagreus set out on his journey, Persephone fussed over him until he was convinced to exchange his chitoniskos of thin linen for a long, woolen chiton. To quiet her anxiety, he gave in and put on some actual boots as well. After that, it was all too easy for her to wheedle him into bundling up in the restrictive warmth of a poppy-red himation even if it meant he felt like a caterpillar bound by its cocoon.

When he was properly ensconced, she smiled and straightened the necklace about his throat: a slim, gold chain carrying a pendant in the shape of a pom blossom, fine yet sturdy enough to have survived his roughhousing as a child. Looking upon it, her smile grew brighter still as if she found some reassurance in its presence. He’s had it for as long as he can remember. Throughout his childhood, she gently scolded him, telling him he mustn’t take it off, not ever, for it keeps him safe.

He fumbles to touch the pendant now, his chest as hollowed and fragile as an eggshell.

In the morning, before this madness began, he encountered another traveler rushing along. The man ran right into him, making them both stumble. There were a hurried apology and a chirpy farewell and just like that Zagreus was alone on the road again. It took him a moment to realize the pom flower that had survived centuries of him running about and tumbling from trees had lost a petal, leaving a sharp edge to dig into his skin. His stomach churned with a sense of guilt and childish misery when he first saw it and that same sensation returns to him now.

In hindsight, the pom flower was a portent.

The clothes served him well until his encounter with the Slayer of Men. He had to pause early in his escape to pull up his chiton and, when that did little, then to tear it. Despite the snow and wind, he shed the himation soon after, tossing it as far from his path as he could, silently praying that new snow would cover his tracks but leave the bright color of the fabric visible to draw his hunter astray.

Since the breaking of the pendant, something’s been amiss. There’s a buzzing beneath his skin like the tension preceding a thunderstorm. Off and on, his feet and calves have itched then prickled with numbness. He originally assumed the sensations were caused by the boots he’s so unused to wearing and the heavy snow he’s trudging through; it wasn’t until he began to run that he realized there was something more.

The boots held up for a time, but their soles have now fallen away, and the leather still wrapped around his calves has darkened from more than the damp snow. When he first noticed, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him, but after a night alone with himself, he can deny it no longer: Something is wrong. The destruction of the shoes can’t be explained away by heavy use or the terrible weather. His toes are no longer numb and yet he can hardly feel the ground beneath his bare feet. Where he steps the snow melts and the damp earth hisses as if burnt.

Persephone is a god—a demigod, perhaps, given the mortal blood in her veins but a _god_ in Zagreus’ eyes. For how could one who wakes life with a brush of her fingertips be anything but? What is a mother if not a god?

He’s known for as long as he can remember. When he was a child so attentively watching her breathe life into the smallest things, he asked why he couldn’t do the same and that’s when she explained the red of their blood—that which her mortal father passed on to her and she then passed to Zagreus. He would never have power, not like her, but she promised he would live a long, long life.

Even as he stumbles onwards, too weak to run, but too afraid to stop moving, he laughs. There is divine blood in his veins, hot and sharp in a way it’s never been before. The truth he’s feeling from his head to his toes is undeniable, but too much to face while he’s half-mad with fear. No matter how he tries to push it from his mind though, his thoughts race at a dizzying pace beyond his control, jumbling until he can hardly think at all.

It was hidden from him, but how? Why?

Did Persephone know?

Even thinking it is like inviting a fist to curl around his throat. She knew—she knew! But of course, _she knew_!

His shoulder catches on the rough bark of a cypress tree. The blood drawn forth is painfully hot where it spills down his arm. He clasps his hand over the wound, hissing.

In the dim light of morning, he can make out the familiar terrain of the cliffside ahead and smell the salt of the sea. His chest seizes with relief and a sense of mourning he can barely parse. The prospect of seeing his mother again is like a balm on seared skin, and yet he feels he’ll lose some crucial part of himself as soon as he faces her.

His throat is tight, his heart caught there like a rabbit in a snare. Sobs gather along his tongue, as sharp as shards of glass, but he holds them in for fear of his cries being so great he’ll be found.

He makes his way to the cliffside, leaning heavily on the trees as he goes. The wind grows stronger and sharper the closer he gets, eagerly clawing at his face and clothes. He feels the cold only where the wind strikes him—otherwise, it’s distant in a way it’s never been before. He can’t tell if it’s the work of shock or some strange magic flowing through him, but for the moment he’s thankful.

Clinging to the trunk of a young tree, he looks over the edge, searching for some normalcy in the steadfast push and pull of the sea. The beach is covered, but for a moon-like sliver of sand where the snow has been washed away. In the thin light, the water is still as dark as the night sky, its ink cut through only by the alabaster of cresting waves.

Zagreus breathes in with the ocean’s approach and out with its withdrawal.

If he could, he would stay here forever, safe from the chase and from the coming confrontation with his mother. His body feels so heavy now that he’s still. It’s easy to imagine the earth giving way beneath his feet and Gaia swallowing him whole like a snake with an egg; in moments, he would vanish from this place, never to be seen again.

A part of him is tempted to look down, to draw the burnt leather from his skin and reveal whatever horror is hidden beneath.

He keeps his eyes on the sea. He doesn’t move.

He cannot afford this moment, no matter how much he may need it. He knows this. Yet he lingers, grip tightening on the tree trunk until its bark digs into his skin. He takes a deep breath. He closes his eyes and clenches his teeth.

“Zagreus?”

He tears his eyes open. He spins around, unsteady feet slipping in the mud created by their heat. His heart jolts.

A man lingers in the shadow of a great fir tree. Zag can barely make out his silhouette in the darkness, but his eyes gleam like burnished gold—like a wolf’s.

Zag stumbles back, teetering dangerously close to the lip of the cliff. His grip on the tree falters. He reaches to grab something, anything, but it’s of little use—his hands and limbs, usually so sure, are foal-weak from his hours of struggle.

Those starlight eyes go wide.

Zag’s mouth opens but no words come forth.

“ _Zagreus_.”

His nails scrape the bark.

The exhaustion sinks its claws deeper— _deeper_. It seizes his muscles, his bones, his heart.

There’s a moment of weightlessness. The man lurches forward, hand outstretched.

“Please!” Zagreus croaks, unsure what he’s asking for but knowing he can do no more himself.

That broad hand locks around his wrist. There’s a jerk—a shock of pain that lances up his arm and through his shoulder—and he’s back on solid ground, feet squelching in the mud and knees knocking.

A sob slips between his teeth. Tears are burning in his eyes, but he shuts them tight—tighter still. Being too loud will get him caught if he hasn’t been already. This is a stranger and given his current position, Zagreus can’t afford to trust him even if he just saved his life. He should pull away and at least attempt to flee, but his legs are still wobbling like a fawn’s.

“Zagreus,” the man murmurs, voice laden with such sorrow it creeps between Zagreus’ ribs like a vine, seizing his fluttering heart. He keeps one hand locked around Zag’s wrist and the other comes to grip his shoulder for a fleeting moment before trailing to the back of his head; in contrast with the fierce hold he keeps on Zag’s arm, his fingertips barely ghost through the ends of his hair as if he’s searching for some way to soothe. “You’re bleeding.”

Against his better judgment, Zag clutches at his wrist in turn. His stomach is still swooping with the sensation of falling and he feels as if he’ll tip over again if he’s released.

Is he bleeding? He can hardly think over the roaring in his ears. Everything feels tender from his feet to his wind-bitten ears. He’s hyper-aware of the places where the stranger touches him, the sensation somewhere between too much and not enough. The fingertips pressed against his skin like embers consume his focus, distracting yet almost grounding.

“Zagreus,” he repeats, beseeching. His hand drifts from Zagreus’ hair and Zag digs his nails into the man’s wrist, mindlessly seeking to keep him where he is.

“Are—Are you here to kill me?” Zagreus chokes. He flushes when the question sinks in. If the heroes he’s lauded since childhood were to see him now, facing his death with tears blurring his vision, so tired he’s on the verge of collapse, they would think him a coward—a foolish boy who fled from his mistakes rather than a man, let alone a descendant of the gods.

The stranger sucks in a breath. His hand cradles the back of Zagreus’ neck as if drawn there. His skin is cool. Zagreus holds perfectly still.

“ _No_ ,” he says with such vehemence Zagreus shivers. “I will not harm you in any way.”

“Oh… You—” He reluctantly releases the man’s hand to wipe the tears from his eyes. “Who are you?”

“I apologize, but I cannot say.”

Vision cleared, Zagreus looks at him properly for the first time and freezes. Even in the growing light of dawn, the stranger is no clearer to him than he was when cradled by the pine’s shadow. He bears the shape of a man, but it’s as if Erebus himself drew down the sky to swaddle him in the blacks, blues, and purples of the deepest night. His eyes shine through the cloud of darkness that encompasses him, twin stars that pierce Zagreus’ heart with their light.

“ _Oh_ ,” Zagreus whispers. “Oh, you’re—”

“Don’t be afraid.” The words are spoken in the sweetest rumble like a promise of a summer storm. “Please don’t be afraid…”

“Erebus?” he mumbles, then bites his tongue, feeling foolish.

“No, not Erebus. But I cannot tell you my name. It’s necessary for both your safety and mine, you must believe me.” Despite the strange pall, the pinch of his brow is clear enough. The colors seem to move with him, giving a general impression of his face for Zagreus to interpret. “I am a Chthonic god, you aren’t far off in that respect,” he says as if he’s admitting some great sin.

Zagreus gawks. A million questions rising to his tongue, but he holds them back, knowing they’re frivolous in a moment like this. A Chthonic god and an Olympian in one night. If he weren’t so terrified, he might laugh.

“Please don’t be afraid,” he repeats, quieter now, words nearly lost in the wind.

“I-I’m not afraid—not of you.”

The stranger’s eyes soften. “Here, come closer,” he urges, gentling Zagreus into his space until their chests nearly touch.

Zagreus’ breath hitches. There’s an electric aura surrounding the man that makes the hair on his arms stand on end; Zag suspects it’s an effect of the veil of night. It’s hard to say if his skin is cold or if Zag’s is feverish, but the difference and the weight of his hold are grounding.

Zagreus feels more present, more _real_ than he has all night.

“It’s a spell. It conceals my presence from those who may seek to…” His eyes flit to the side. “It won’t cover you entirely, but it will help.”

“Thank you.” Zagreus stares at him, awed by his touch—by his mercy. “You know, don’t you? Who the one hunting me is?”

He inclines his chin. “I know.”

“And you would still help me? I—” He shakes his head. “I can’t allow it. No one should pay for my faults.”

Eyes crinkling, he whispers, “Just between us, Lord Ares wouldn’t dare hurt me.”

Zagreus’ shoulders slump, the tension that held them rigid sloughing off like melting snow. He combs through the possibilities: Charon, Epiales, Eurynomos, Geras, Hypnos, and Death. Surely there are more, but fatigued as he is, his mind is blanking. Who would Ares respect? Who would he fear?

“Zagreus,” he says, caressing his name as if it is something holy. “I—"

“You know my name.” The words jump from his tongue before he can hold them back. He bites the inside of his cheek. He’s already enraged one god, the last thing he needs to do is offend another. Restraint has never been one of his strong suits—perhaps why he got himself into this mess in the first place.

Luckily, the stranger appears unbothered beyond a fleeting frown. “I would explain myself, but our time is limited.”

Zag nods weakly.

“I wish I could offer you the chance to ask any questions you have, but that’s simply not possible—not at the moment. Instead, I must ask something of you.” He squeezes the back of Zag’s neck, sending a golden-bright shock down his spine. Voice hushed as if fearful of even the wind hearing, he murmurs, “The revelation of your existence to the gods will lead to violence between Olympus and the Underworld. I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s the truth.”

It’s as if the stranger has reached between his ribs and taken hold of his lungs. “What?” he rasps. “Because I—Because I brought that man back?”

The stranger hushes him, pulling him closer still as if to hold him, but he hesitates at the last second, leaving Zagreus to question if he imagined it.

Eyes flickering across Zag’s face, he breathes, “It’s… It’s a complex situation.”

“Please,” Zag urges, all glass shards and bloody tongue. “I didn’t know what I was doing—”

“I know. I _know_ you didn’t. I believe you. But that makes no difference. Even if you convince them of your ignorance, it will do no good. They know of you now—the Olympians, at least, and soon Hades will, too. It’s not your fault, I swear to you. It was not your actions, but the actions of those who came before you that led to this point. But you’re in danger all the same.”

He shakes his head wildly. “Ares—”

“ _Listen_. You must listen, Zagreus,” he pleads. “The Olympians keep beautiful, powerful things such as yourself beneath their thumbs. You know of Ganymede, yes? _Yes_?”

Zag nods, hand finding the stranger’s wrist once more. He feels as if he’ll be swept away by the whipping breeze at any moment, but the stranger holds him steady.

“It is their way. If Ares does not strike you down, they will pluck you up, and perhaps your fate then would be worse than death. And Hades—Lord Hades is—” He breathes out sharply. “I don’t know how he’ll react to this, but he is the least of your concerns.”

“But Ares killed him again—as soon as I brought him back, Ares killed him again—”

“I know—Darling, I know. It—” He glances over his shoulder and back again, catching Zagreus’ gaze. His eyes are so powerful, so fierce, Zagreus is helpless but to listen when subject to his attention. “I have yet to even touch the mess of _why_ Lord Ares wanted him dead. We have so little time, I—” He looks back, searching the forest. Swallows. When he faces Zagreus, his eyes are so very bright it feels as if he’s looking into the sun. “Please— _Please_ consider what I’m about to say. Think of it as you return to your mother. You must put as much thought into it as you can. Will you? Please, promise me you will.”

“Yes! Whatever it is, I’ll consider it.”

“Eventually Lord Hades will have mercy upon you. _He will_. I know that must sound strange—the most severe of the gods showing mercy where his kindred won’t, but it’s the truth. The Olympians are more… unreliable. The only way I can see to protect the Underworld and in turn you and your mother is this: Bind yourself to me.” His hands tremble. He brushes his thumb along the crook of Zag’s throat, so very sweet, even when he’s rigid with tension. “Wed me.”

Zagreus’ breath hitches.

“Wed me and I will tell Lord Ares the resurrection was an extension of _my_ power you bear as my husband rather than the power passed to you from your progenitors. He may see through the ruse, but he won’t know enough to challenge me—not directly. It will conceal the truth of your blood, allowing Persephone to remain in hiding for however long she may need to formulate her own plan as she is the only one who can truly fix this.

“If he still seeks your blood, there’s little he can do, for I will take you to the Underworld and as long as the truth of your parentage is hidden, the Olympians will not agree to attack Hades no matter how desperately he wants to.”

“To the Underworld? But—Persephone—”

“Allow her to handle Olympus. Come with me to the Underworld to give her time to do what she must. I would never keep you there—I mean, I would not force you to stay forever. Just—” He breathes out harshly. “Just long enough.”

“I-I don’t understand,” Zag croaks, shaking his head. “I don’t even know your _name_ and you want to wed me? To help me?”

“Just—Please consider it. I know it’s a terrible sacrifice, and to ask it of you—of _anyone_ is… But I fear the war that would come to my home otherwise.”

He feels nauseous. “Because of my parentage? The revelation of my parentage would bring _war_?” He wavers on his feet, prompting the stranger to hold him tighter.

“Ask your mother. Return to your home and tell her what I’ve told you.”

“But—you won’t be able to find me. My—” He holds his tongue.

“It’s all right, Zagreus,” he whispers, gaze so very tender. “I know. It’s all right.”

He releases Zag’s neck to reach towards himself, the pall surrounding his hand blurring with that hanging about his shoulders. From beneath the fog, he draws forth a shawl that swims with color just as his concealment does. Even in the dull light, it shimmers like the sprawl of the milky way as if it were cut from the sky.

“Oh…” Zagreus stares, entranced by its beauty. “It’s lovely.”

“It is, isn’t it?” The stranger’s voice is warm with pride.

He moves to pull his other hand free and Zagreus gasps out a pitiful noise, holding on stubbornly. The man freezes. Zag’s cheeks burn. He quickly releases the stranger in favor of leaning on the tree next to them, gaze downcast.

The man hesitates for a moment more before reaching out, carefully guiding the shawl around Zagreus’ shoulders and over his head. Where it brushes his neck and cheeks, the fabric is softer than anything he’s ever felt, almost as if it’s been made from clouds and sweet breezes. Though he still feels hyper-aware of every inch of his skin, it doesn’t chafe at his nerves but instead soothes his burning blood.

Zagreus looks up at the stranger, taking in the tenderness of his gaze. He looks at Zagreus as if he not only sees his suffering, but in some way, feels it too. Zag longs to know his face with a fierceness he can’t explain, to see him as he is seen.

“There… It will help conceal you until you reach your home. It will keep you safe.”

“Thank you,” he says for lack of any better words to express the rush of appreciation and relief he feels. “I—Thank you…”

“Of course… It’s the least I could do.” The stranger searches his face, hands lingering between them. “I don’t want there to be any misunderstanding. Were you to accept my-my _proposal_ , I would not expect anything of you. I would not expect you to act as my husband. I would not force you into my bed, nor would I keep you from another’s.” He touches Zag’s wrist once more and Zagreus turns his hand, silently asking to be held again—to be grounded. The stranger curls his willowy fingers about his wrist, eyes dipping. “In my home, you would have your own room. You would not be expected to sleep in my chambers. Though we would not act as husbands in any other sense, I would provide for you—I would not allow you to suffer in my care, in an unfamiliar place.

“As much as this may help you, it would help me as well, and I would not take the sacrifice of your time and comfort for granted. You could stay in contact with your mother—Hermes, you see, comes and goes as he pleases, and he wouldn’t dare betray someone’s— _anyone’s_ confidence. I would ensure your comfort for as long as you stayed.” His thumb caresses Zagreus’ pulse. “And in the Underworld, there are truths I can offer you that I do not have the time to share here.”

Zagreus’ heart stutters in his chest. “What do you mean?”

“About your heritage.”

Lurching forward, Zagreus reaches through the pall to clutch at the stranger’s arm. He meets his alarmed gaze without fear. “Tell me this and I’ll ask nothing more of you, at least not now: Is my father a Chthonic god?”

The pall shifts, deep pinks spiraling over the man’s cheeks and forehead as his expression mellows. “Yes. He is.”

Zagreus does laugh, then—a weak, strained thing that slips from his lips like a wail.

“Zagreus?” He cups Zag’s elbow with his free hand. “Please don’t be afraid, it’s—”

“I-I’m not afraid!” he titters. “No, I—” He tilts his head back, gazing up at the bleary sky as the first snowflakes begin to fall. “I’m not afraid. I’m not.” Facing the stranger once more, he smiles, sincere if tired. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

After a moment, he inclines his head, the colors mellowing. “You’re very welcome…”

Zagreus swallows down another laugh. “It just makes sense, you see.”

He blinks owlishly, and really, it’s so very cute Zagreus can’t help but giggle. He feels half-mad coming down from the adrenaline and fear—high on the relief. He’s confused still, but there’s a promise of knowledge ahead. A promise of truth. And he’s so hungry for it, he feels a new rush of energy searing through his veins.

“I’ll return to my mother. I’ll consider what you’ve told me. But how will I contact you? How will you know? Hermes?”

“Ah, no…” He releases Zag’s elbow and reaches once more into the pall, this time by his hip. He pauses, looking between the spot where his hand is and Zagreus’ expression. “It’s a bit silly,” he mutters, but brings forth a bundle of sable fabric nonetheless. “It will summon me…” He presses it into Zagreus’ hand before he can question it. “We’ve already taken much too long. Go now. Hurry.” Despite his words, he doesn’t release Zagreus immediately; he steps back, drawing Zag along with him to create distance between them and the cliffside. “You’ll be all right? You’ll make it the rest of the way?”

“I will. I’ll make it.” Zagreus can’t bring himself to let go of the man, instead gripping his wrist as if he’ll disappear otherwise. “And I’ll, ah, I’ll summon you.” He draws the bundle to his chest.

The man inclines his head. “Good. I’ll see you then. Be safe, Zagreus.”

Smiling, Zagreus murmurs, “Be safe, stranger.”

His eyes crinkle and then he’s gone like smoke on the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please consider leaving kudos and a comment ♥ it helps a lot!**
> 
> I made myself set this date to post because I knew if I didn't I would never let it see the light of day despite the 30k already written and all the hours I've put into it. If you enjoyed it and would like to read more, please consider interacting w/ it in some way so I can know.
> 
> [Follow me on Twitter for updates!](https://twitter.com/konigscrusade) [My carrd if you'd like to find me elsewhere or support my work in other ways.](https://konigsberg.carrd.co/)
> 
> Many thanks to Jasper for beta reading! You can find their ThanZag fic [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27569344)
> 
> [Chitons](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chiton_\(costume\)) are the little single-shoulder tunics. Chitoniskoi (sing. chitoniskos) were the short chitons. I think they're the closest equivalent to what Zag wears. [Himations](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Himation) (or himatia) were more like a wrap or mantle and usually worn over a chiton, but sometimes worn on its own. So tl;dr: Persephone forced Zag to dress warmly before he went out. Just mom things.
> 
> Zag refers to Ares with [Erebus](https://www.hellenicgods.org/ares-the-epithets>various%20epithets</a>%20from%20ancient%20texts%20etc.%0A%0A<a%20href=) is a primordial deity of darkness and shadows, thus Zag assuming Than is him due to his concealment. In case it causes any confusion: Erebus also refers to a region of the Underworld in both the game and mythology.
> 
> The names Zagreus goes through (Charon, [Epiales](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Epiales), [Eurynomos](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eurynomos_\(daemon\)), [Geras](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Geras), Hypnos, and Death) are all various Chthonic gods. You don't really need to know anything about these figures, the point is just that Zag is trying to consider all the possibilities he's aware of.
> 
> Than refers to the myth of [Ganymede](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ganymede_\(mythology\)), the beautiful Trojan prince abducted to serve as cupbearer to the Olympians. In this sense, I didn't mean to refer to the sexual aspects of the myth, just that the Olympians really just ran around scooping people up if they were interesting or useful (although one could argue some Chthonic gods did the same).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zagreus presses his body to the man’s, wondering the whole time if this is right—if they truly look like besotted lovers desperately holding each other or like the frauds they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> His mouth and brows, capricious,  
> mingle their honey with a great bitterness;  
> upon his shoulder, with tightening talons,  
> there perches a hard-eyed hawk.  
>  _Eros of Ebony_ by Clark Ashton Smith

As a boy, Zagreus often snuck from bed in the dead of night, lured by the promise of stolen summer-breaths and starlight.

He would pretend to fall asleep when Persephone tucked him in, drawing the covers to his chin before kissing his hair. He knew to wait for long, quiet hours until she was sure to be asleep herself, even if it sometimes meant he drifted off, too. Only then would he creep to his window, oh so carefully opening the squeaky pane. He’d heft himself out, feet scrabbling at the wall, and finally, he’d tumble into the free-growing asphodel sprawled behind the cottage. Every time, he’d peek over his shoulder, half expecting to find his mother frowning from above, but she never was. With that, he’d hop up and delve into the cover of the asphodel, easily hidden beneath their tall blossoms.

Upon finding the deepest, darkest little nook, he nestled himself amongst the flowers. Angling his head just so, he’d lay there and gaze at the sky through the bobbing stalks above. Their sweet smell would curl around him, carried on the summer breeze, lulling him, so he hung suspended between waking and sleep. There, he could imagine he was drifting with the stars or carried in the arms of the sea.

Sometimes, he would reach out and pluck a bloom to place on his tongue, and he’d let it rest there until all he could taste was sugar and the salt heavy in the air.

These are the flowers that grow far beneath the earth in the realm of Hades—the eponym of the Asphodel Meadows. They carry the voices of the shades, or so the old scrolls told him. Mortals plant them on the graves of their loved ones, perhaps hoping to hear them one last time.

On those quiet nights, he’d strain to catch any words in the rustling of their frail leaves, tilting his face to feel their caress against his cheek.

There’s a certain peace to that spot that Zagreus can find nowhere else. Particularly when the smiling moon shone upon it, adding her magic to the air, he was taken to another realm, and his mind grew still. Still, he was drawn there during the day, and he’d spend afternoons weaving the flowers into crowns for himself and his mother.

Looking up at the sky now, he longs to be amongst the asphodel, warm and surrounded by gentle touches and ghostly voices. With the snow so very sharp against his cheeks and his legs throbbing with each step, he wants the safety of the little thicket so desperately he could cry. Perhaps he’ll find himself in a field of asphodel soon, one way or another.

He’s so close—the farm is just over the hill ahead. Persephone is there. Persephone, with her gentle touch and kind eyes, is waiting for him. She’ll hold him close. She’ll soothe his trembling body and his quaking heart with steady hands and murmurs of love. There, he’ll be free to openly sob. He’ll be able to cry and scream and demand answers. He knows he won’t be safe—not fully—but behind the walls of his mother’s enchantments, he’ll be allotted precious moments to bare his vulnerabilities and then gather himself. All the questions he has about what he is, who his father is, and the stranger in the woods’ proposition can be laid out and addressed.

Hope blossoms in his chest, its petals like tender golden light and dripping honey, and soothes his throbbing heart.

He forces his feet to move faster.

He’s so close.

The shawl is drawn from his head by the wind. Before he can pull it up once more, fingers find his hair, fisting there. He gasps, eyes wide and mouth slack. He’s jerked off his feet.

He falls with a ragged sob; the snow doesn’t cushion him entirely, and a rock digs into his hip. The bundle given to him by the stranger is still cradled to his chest, and he clutches it tighter still, desperate to keep his one link to the man safe.

He reaches back, his trembling hand finding the one dragging him away from his home and clawing desperately. “No! Please, I’m sorry—Please, Lord Ares! _Please_!” Zagreus bawls, his nails digging into Ares’ knuckles. He kicks out, sending snow flying. His lungs seize.

Ares clicks his tongue. “Oh, godling, your pleading is in vain.” He uses his grip on Zag’s hair to haul him off the ground and chuckles when the action forces a thin wail from between Zag’s teeth.

He’s massive. Zagreus is already short if strong, but Ares surpasses even the tallest mortal man and his strength is beyond that of a mere demigod. Zagreus can’t fight his way out of this—it’s impossible.

Zag tries to find his footing, but Ares shakes him, and his feet slip through the mud and slush, sending steam rising into the air. His head throbs and his vision swims. He holds the bundle tighter still, fear gripping his heart.

“I am not one known for mercy—particularly not in regards to matters such as these.” Ares’ other hand finds Zag’s jaw, fingers digging into his skin so harshly Zag’s teeth grind. He forces Zag’s face up and to the side until they’re eye to eye.

Heart pounding, Zagreus takes in the sharp lines of Ares’ face and the hellish fire of his eyes with growing dread. He smells so strongly of blood and smoke Zagreus’ stomach churns.

The Indestructible: he who is loyal to the struggle, but no side—God of War.

Zagreus feels like an insect caught between a cruel child’s fingertips.

Ares’ eyes narrow. His lips twitch towards a sneer before smoothing once more. “Are you another of Poseidon’s lot, then? Sent to save your wretched kin by your father?”

“No,” he croaks. Speaking is difficult thanks to Ares’ unrelenting hold, but he pushes through it. “No, I—it was a mistake. Please, what I said before—it’s the truth. I didn’t know what I was doing. I-I don’t even know who he was.”

Ares slowly raises a brow. “Is that so?”

Taking a steadying breath, he murmurs, “Yes. It’s the truth.”

His smirk curls like smoke. “Tell me, boy, what blood flows through your veins?”

Zag’s tongue feels thick and useless behind his teeth. To reveal Persephone would be to put her in danger—he doesn’t know why or what it would lead to, not exactly, but it horrifies him all the same. To lie to Lord Ares, outright or through omission, is liable to cost him his head, but he’d rather fall himself than put his mother’s life on the line.

Could the stranger save him? The man claimed that Ares wouldn’t dare hurt him, so perhaps he could get away with facing him and enacting his plan now. It’s Zag’s only chance.

With trembling fingers, Zagreus peels back the fabric from the bundle until he touches something wooly. “Please,” he whispers. “Please, have mercy.”

A bell rings out loud enough to be heard over the whistle of the wind. The pallid light of day is overcome by an eerie flash of green. Zagreus winces, closing his eyes.

His heart lurches in his chest. Breathing comes easier.

Ares’ smirk only grows. Not looking away from Zagreus, not for a moment, he calls out, “I was wondering when you would arrive, my friend. How were you thwarted this time? Don’t tell me you fell for that chain trick twice.”

“Lord Ares,” the stranger responds, a certain world-weariness coloring his voice.

Ares’ brow twitches. He cocks his head but doesn’t turn his attention from his prey.

“I must apologize for yesterday’s events.”

“Ah, so it was your fault, then?” Ares laughs. He releases Zag’s hair in favor of reaching for his sword; his eyes crinkle as Zag’s widen. “I’m sure it’s a fascinating tale. For now—”

“Wait—Please wait.”

Ares the Implacable waivers. The amusement drains from his eyes.

“It’s not his fault. It’s mine. Sincerely, it’s mine.” The stranger drifts into Zagreus’ line of sight. He lingers a short distance behind Ares, giving him a wide berth. “He didn’t realize the power granted to him through our union,” he explains, smooth as silk—not a single hitch, no tell.

Ares whips his head to the side, eyes wide. His lips move as if testing the words on his tongue.

“I failed to realize it would—I never thought,” he fumbles. “It simply never occurred to me, you see, that it would allow him an ability as significant as resurrection.”

“You’re… wedded?” Ares says slowly, voice so perfectly dull, it’s hard to tell if he’s merely shocked or disbelieving.

“I—Yes, I thought you knew. That is to say, I thought you knew I was married, not that you knew to whom I am wedded.” He moves as if approaching a wolf rather than a man or even a fellow god, his hands hovering at his sides, ready to shield himself if necessary. “This is Zagreus’ first time exploring the surface. He didn’t know what he was doing. He meant no offense. If you seek retribution, it’s me you should address. It’s my husband and my purview.”

Though Zagreus knows the game they’re playing, the thought of being someone’s responsibility embitters him. The way he’s being spoken about as if he’s a child or an unruly pet, not a man here and listening, chafes. He grinds his teeth, holding back his vitriol.

Ares’ grip shifts. Zagreus hisses, blinking the tears from his eyes.

The stranger sucks in a breath. “I’ve come with no weapons as a sign of goodwill. I do not wish to cross swords with you. I will accept whatever pain or sacrifice you wish, but not this—not my husband’s blood.” His voice is hard and low yet nearly trembling with the effort of restraining himself.

It rattles Zagreus, weakening his resolve; he can’t help but choke out a wordless sob. “Beloved,” he whispers, the word springing forth without a second thought as if he has said it a million times before and will say it again in quiet places, behind closed doors, and pressed to a sharp-beating pulse.

A part of him expects this to be it—Ares will release him, accepting this explanation, even if he’s reluctant to do so. Instead, Ares’ hold tightens brutally. Zagreus gasps and claws at Ares’ wrist.

“ _Ares_ ,” the man barks, looming closer.

“How long?” Ares murmurs, garnet eyes boring into Zagreus. The cool exterior he’s maintained, barely concealing his rage or not, is beginning to crack like so much ice, allowing his bloodlust to spill forth. “How long have you been married?”

“What? What are you— _Ares_!”

“ _How long_?” he growls, gnashing his teeth.

And _oh_ , Zagreus sees it now—knows why the stranger was so sure the God of War would not shed his blood. Fear spills down his spine like frozen water. Is the stranger mad? Posing as his husband was meant to shield him, not enrage Ares further.

“We wed not long ago,” the stranger bursts out. “It was in secret due to my nature. I feared he would be treated unfairly for our union.”

The furrow of Ares’ brow deepens. His grip loosens, and Zagreus heaves out a sigh.

“Please. Take your rage out on me. It’s my fault. And… And in return for this, I will ensure his soul will suffer.”

Zagreus turns his wide eyes on the stranger, nails digging into the bundle.

Seeing his fear, he rushes to add, “The man you killed. He’ll be sent to the pits for his actions, of course, but I can ensure that he receives unique attention from Alecto.”

“And this…” Ares glances Zag over fleetingly as if he hardly warrants his attention. “I assume you’d ask me to keep this quiet?”

“I… For his sake. Please.”

“For _your_ sake, perhaps.” Ares’ attention turns to the horizon. “You sincerely fear he would be derided for his association with you?”

The stranger is silent.

“I see.” He doesn’t drop so much as shove Zagreus away.

Unable to catch himself, Zagreus falls into the snow, the bundle slipping from his fingertips. He sobs out a raw, little noise as ice and rocks dig into his palms. Tears sting at the corners of his eyes, but he fights them back, terrified of Ares witnessing them.

He wants his mother—he wants her tender hands smoothing over his knuckles and her kisses pressed to his brow. He wants to return to that sprawl of asphodel and bury himself amongst them, listening to their whispers, safe from prying eyes.

Hands find his shoulders. He jumps, head rearing up, so he’s face to face with the stranger kneeling at his side, his veil of darkness shot through with shards of gray. The man is quick to withdraw, but his hands hover between them as if he’s unsure if he should maintain the ruse or respect Zag’s space.

Slowly, giving Zagreus the chance to tell him to stop or show his discomfort in some way small enough to keep from their audience, he places his hand on Zag’s shoulder. “Oh, Zagreus… Don’t worry, I’ll… we’ll go home soon.” His eyes are fever-bright as they trace Zagreus’ form, searching out wounds. “Very soon.”

Zagreus’ throat tightens. Before he can stop himself, he’s on his knees, fumbling closer to him.

“Zag—Sweetheart?” His voice carries a note of uncertainty, but when Zagreus, shaking like a leaf, collapses against him, he’s accepted with open arms.

Beneath that pall of night, Zagreus’ hands find smooth skin, silky fabric, and cold metal. The stranger is so beautifully warm it’s only natural that Zagreus attempts to press his face to the man’s shoulder, uttering a low noise when his forehead meets metal rather than skin or fabric.

Truly, he shouldn’t be doing this, but the stranger was willing to touch him earlier, reeling him close and stroking his wrist as he did. And now they’re under the scrutiny of Lord Ares, so the display of familiarity serves their ruse—or at least, that’s his excuse. It’s not the same as hugging his mother, but he needs something, someone, desperately.

The man curls around him, every movement careful and purposeful so that Zagreus will see it coming. One broad hand settles at the center of his back, waiting until Zag gives a little nod, then smooths upwards, drawing circles between his shoulder blades. It’s not a hesitance brought about by awkwardness, for when he moves it’s with confidence. Zagreus has never been held like this—as if he’s beset with gold and jewels.

His nose brushes Zag’s temple. “I’ve got you.” He adjusts the shawl where it’s fallen from Zag’s shoulder. “It’s going to be okay; I’ve got you…”

The snow crunches next to them. Zagreus flinches, holding the stranger tighter.

“It’s all right,” he whispers. “It’s all right, Zagreus…”

Ares snorts. “You will ensure Halirrhothius is punished for his crimes.”

The man’s fingers curl, gripping the back of Zag’s chiton. “Yes, of course—it’s the least I can do, my Lord.”

That part of Zagreus so hungry for knowledge no matter the consequence is tempted to lift his head just to catch a glimpse of Ares’ expression. He wants—no, _needs_ to know how Ares is taking this. Is he watching with sharp eyes or can he not bear it, gaze still on the sky? Is his rage quiet, carefully hidden, or is it on full display? As if sensing his rising urge to withdraw, the stranger’s hand comes to cradle the back of Zag’s head, keeping him where he is.

Ares steps away, and it’s as if a weight has been removed from Zag’s chest. “Tell me this: Why is your husband here?” he asks slowly. And just like that, the weight is back.

“He longed to see the surface,” the stranger says. Where his hand rests, gently curved around the base of Zag’s skull, he draws his nails across his scalp, making him shiver. “I was worried, but… I couldn’t deny him.”

Huffing, Ares stalks away, his footsteps heavy and rasping through the snow. “I seek no further vengeance. Leave before I change my mind.”

The man wastes no time, taking Zagreus by the arm and helping him to his feet. Dazed as he is, Zagreus is rendered pliant, moving readily beneath the stranger’s hands. It’s easy to trust him like this, not just because of his gentleness but also his adamance. The secrets he embodies, too, inspire Zagreus to be inquisitive where he may otherwise be rankled. Even then, there’s something more—some ineffable quality he possesses that resonates with Zagreus though he cannot pinpoint its source. Perhaps it’s the shine of his eyes or the way he maintains a coolness to his voice no matter how affected his stance reveals him to be. It’s there in little things, almost too small and swift to make note of, particularly in this chaos, and it only adds to the mystique.

Driven by anxiety and curiosity, Zagreus tilts his head just enough to seek Ares with his eyes. He watches the god’s retreating figure, his attention drawn to the rigid line of his shoulders and the way his fist twitches toward the sword at his hip.

A Chthonic god wrapped in night, beloved by War. Were Zag not shaking still, he would laugh and cry and throttle the man for his madness.

“Zagreus? Zagreus, are you all right?” The stranger draws back, trying to catch Zag’s gaze. When their eyes meet, he squeezes Zag’s elbow. Ripples fan across his face like golden streaks in a field of wheat touched by wind. “There you are. Come closer, and we’ll leave this place.”

“The—I dropped it,” Zagreus whispers. “What you gave me.”

“Oh, yes.” He glances at Ares’ back before sweeping to snatch up the bundle from where it landed in the snow. He tucks it once more beneath his shadow then returns his hands to Zagreus’ arms. “There. Now… let us go.”

Zagreus nods. The fire is fading from his blood, and in its wake are quickly-growing blossoms of pain: along his scalp, corded down his neck, and sharp like knives in his calves. Where Ares gripped his jaw is particularly tender, the sensation penetrating skin and muscle until he can feel it in his bones. He grits his teeth against the encroaching pain only for it to intensify, and yet forcing the muscles to relax brings its own form of suffering as the ache shifts from keen and stinging to a dull, feverish throb. There’s more he wishes to say, but it’s this that holds his tongue.

If that wasn’t enough, the realization he’s going to be taken to the Underworld casts every other thought from his mind. In mere moments he’ll be spirited away from the only realm he’s ever known. Now that it’s here, about to happen long before he expected, the thrill and terror of it strike anew. All that’s laid before him gives him hope, but the circumstances add a sour note.

The trip he set out on yesterday morning was to take a week—a period far longer than any he’s spent apart from his mother before. And now that separation extends before him, its end unknown.

The thought of his mother makes his heart quake. No matter how much he may want to, to go to her now would be too dangerous, of that he’s certain. The stranger must know he didn’t make it since they’re here. Does he think Zagreus is weak? Incapable? He feels it. But after facing Ares, Zagreus suspects it’s for the best. If he’d gone just a little farther and reached the brink of his mother’s magic, she would have either been revealed or sacrificed herself in an attempt to protect him.

The stranger shuffles Zagreus closer, guiding Zag’s hands to rest on his shoulders where he feels more metal still. “You know we need to be close to travel this way,” he says, taking up a chiding tone though he gives Zag another little squeeze.

It’s very lucky, Zagreus thinks, that communication is so simple. They’re utter strangers, and while he can see the impression of the man’s face and the way he holds his body, there’s so much he can’t that it should be far more difficult than it is. Despite their limited time together and the added confusion brought by Ares’ hunt, Zagreus not only understands the stranger but feels connected to him, like there’s an unseen string binding them together. There’s a surreal quality to these interactions, which is no doubt due to the pall, but not solely, for as strange as the twilight haze may be, it’s nothing compared to their natural gravitation.

“Of course,” Zag murmurs and presses his body to the man’s, wondering the whole time if this is right—if they truly look like besotted lovers desperately holding each other or like the frauds they are. He’s taller than Zagreus, though not as tall as Lord Ares by far, which makes it easy for Zag to tuck himself against his chest. The static of the pall flickers over his skin. He shuffles his feet between the man’s own. “Sorry, I-I’m just a little… frazzled, I guess.”

“It’s all right, darling.” The man presses his lips to the shell of Zag’s ear, whispering, “This isn’t particularly comfortable, at least not the first few times. Close your eyes for me.”

Zag hums and bobs his head. The stranger has saved him twice now, so he feels safe enough doing as he’s told. He is, at the very least, the devil he knows.

“On three then. One… two… three…”

There’s a sharp pull in the pit of his stomach. He gasps, knuckles aching with the force of his hold on the man’s shoulders. The snow falls away from their feet, and cold air rushes around them. A bell tolls. There’s a jerk that begins in his chest and drops to his middle.

A calm, warm breeze brushes along his cheeks. It carries with it the sweet scent of flowers and damp soil. The heat against his frozen skin almost hurts.

Zagreus curls his toes to find a smooth floor beneath his feet. The sensation is still dulled, almost as if the pads of his feet are covered in a layer of scar tissue. Perhaps it’s in part the snow, but there’s more to it than that. Though he’s usually so very eager to know and see, with this, there’s a certain fear he’s unaccustomed to, for this is his own body—if he should know something well, it is his own form, his own being. His understanding of his self, from his body to his blood, is being slowly torn asunder, thus he clings, as uncharacteristic as it may be, to this little unknown.

“There… You’re safe now…” The man rubs his thumbs along Zagreus’ skin. His hold doesn’t waver even now, when he could justify moving away; Zagreus is unspeakably grateful for it. “We’re beyond Ares’ reach.”

“And… within Lord Hades’ then?”

“I told you,” he murmurs, “Lord Hades won’t hurt you.”

Eyes squeezed shut, Zagreus presses his forehead against the metal along the stranger’s shoulder. There are no excuses for such behavior, but he aches to be touched, to be comforted, and the stranger shows no signs of distress.

“And why shouldn’t he?” Zag curls in on himself, shoulders creeping upwards. “I defied his rule by resurrecting that man. Even if he’s not as angry as Ares, he’ll want me punished. He’ll want to know how I did it.”

“He’ll know. Besides, it’s… a minor issue compared to the things that usually concern him.”

Zagreus rears back, taking in the man’s clear eyes and the purple smoke wreathing his face. “What about Orpheus? Or—I-I don’t know, but—he’ll still reveal my mother, won’t he? You don’t understand. She’s… I don’t know the details, she refuses to speak of it, but she’s isolated from them all—the Olympians, I mean, barring Hermes. She stays far away from them. I know she’s a god, but little more. If Lord Hades were to find out—”

“Zagreus…”

“If he knew, she’d be revealed! I don’t even know how you could know about her or-or me because she’s always home, concealed, and this was my first time—”

“ _Zagreus_.” He rubs his upper arms, his touch gentle but sure. “Zagreus… Breathe—breathe with me. I’ll tell you everything I can. Just breathe for me. That’s it.” He strokes Zagreus’ arms, fingers edging beneath the shawl. “That’s it.”

Zag drags his hand through his hair, wincing when he touches skin tender from Ares’ cruelty. “I-I just don’t want my mother to be hurt.”

“I understand, and I’ll do everything I can to protect you and your mother. I know I’m asking you for so much trust, but…” He takes a deep breath. The purple around his face curls inwards. “Hades will not hurt you. This is the truth.”

Groaning, Zagreus shakes his head. “How can you know?”

“I can explain more, but you’re hurt, and you haven’t slept—”

“No.” Zagreus jerks away, nearly tripping over his own feet.

He feels wretchedly weak, and he can’t stand it any longer. When the man first explained his plan, the promise of being cared for was a blissful relief; truthfully, it still is, at least in a sense. But Zagreus couldn’t even flee. He couldn’t face his attacker with any grace or honor, so he took the coward’s way out, and even then, he couldn’t make it.

When he left his home, he promised his mother he would be okay. That he’s no longer a boy, but a man. And yet here he is, a coward and perhaps a fool, but certainly not as brazen and steadfast as he thought himself to be.

“You don’t get to decide that. I need to know now. _Now_. Or—” He shakes his head until he’s dizzy. He pulls on his hair only to jerk his hand away with a hiss. “I’ll leave, and-and…” His vision swims. He blinks to clear it, and when he focuses once more, his eyes are drawn upwards.

There, just above the man’s head, a butterfly drifts. Its broad wings are as brightly colored as an iris. Zagreus has seen many butterflies given his mother’s work, but he’s never seen one so intensely violet. He watches, lips parted, as it flutters to the man, alighting on his head as if unbothered by the pall lapping at its wings.

“Zagreus?”

“There’s… a butterfly,” Zag mumbles.

The appearance of something so benevolent and familiar breaks through the hold fear had on him. His shoulders slump, and each breath comes easier than the last.

He looks around, finally taking in their surroundings: stone walls awash with the warm candlelight, columns glittering with amethyst and onyx, and tall windows that allow green light to spill across the floor. He stares, transfixed, as butterflies flitter past the window and even come inside to settle on the sharp points of crystals jutting from the walls or the lip of a broad scrying pool engraved with the faces of the Fates. Turning, he finds a wall lined with doors, some closed tightly, and others cracked.

The space is both bright and dim, filled with a constant interplay of light and shadow. The stone walls are the dark gray of storm clouds, and the tiles beneath his feet are made of a pitch-black marble with veins of white. Some of the gems decorating the columns, floor, and walls are dull or opaque, while others are lustrous and translucent. There are many candles lit, but most are tucked into alcoves and recesses that consume some of their light.

A sweet scent is carried on the air—perhaps asphodel or lilies. In the distance, he can hear flowing water. Altogether, the effect created is dreamlike. He’s reminded of the field of asphodel and that place between waking and sleep. His heart aches. The memory is so clear, he can taste the sugar of blossoms on his tongue.

“Do you mind them?” the man asks warily.

“‘Mind them’?” He whips around, and his vision whites. “Oh,” he chokes, holding out his arms to steady himself.

The stranger’s hands are on him immediately, holding him up. “You’ve overworked yourself… We need to get you cleaned up, then you can eat and sleep—whatever you need most.”

Zag nods. “Yeah… Just—You’re sure? You’re sure he won’t hurt my mother?”

“Yes, I swear to you,” he says solemnly. “I promise I’ll tell you more, but you look like you’re about to faint.”

“I feel like it,” he laughs, delirious.

The stranger huffs out an amused little noise. “May I put my arm around you?”

“Huh? Oh, um, yes, sure.”

And so, he hooks an arm around Zagreus’ back before he offers up his other hand for Zagreus to take. Zagreus blinks at it, mind still moving slow. After a moment, he slides his hand into the man’s, sucking in a breath when he feels the prickle of static along his palm.

“Is it terribly uncomfortable?” he murmurs.

“No, it’s just… it’s tingly.”

“Well, I suppose it could be worse.” His voice is warm—Zagreus can hear his smile even before he looks up and sees the odd, starlight etching of it in the smoke. “Come, now. I’ll show you the baths. You’re much too unsteady to bathe properly, but we can take care of your wounds. If you’d like, you can use one of my chitons or himations—whatever you’d prefer—until I find you your own.”

“Yes, please.” Zagreus leans on him more heavily, and he takes his weight with ease.

“You prefer shoes?”

“Oh, no. I like to go barefoot. Is that all right?”

He hums. “Of course.”

Zagreus allows his eyes to dip. He trusts the stranger to hold him up, and he does so without complaint. Perhaps he’s a fool through and through, or maybe this is the work of madness brought on by his desperation, but he’s willing to put at least this much faith in the man.

He’s concealing something more than his identity, that much Zagreus knows with certainty. Why else would he avoid explaining himself? Now that they’re safe in the Underworld, why does he hesitate when he could share all his secrets? But keeping Zagreus hidden is in his best interest as far as Zag can tell, and it will protect Persephone even if it means trouble for Zag in the end.

His tenderness runs too deep to be a tactic, and that may be the greatest reassurance of all. It’s been present since the start, and it’s present now, in the gentle stroke of the man’s thumb over the back of Zag’s hand and the quiet whispers of, “I’ve got you… It’s going to be okay.”

If only for a moment, he makes it easy to believe it will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please consider leaving kudos and a comment ♥ it helps a lot!**
> 
> Thank you all for your kind words. I'm not sure anything I've written has ever received such an immediate surge of support. It really means a lot to me.
> 
> If you're enjoying this, you might like the other ThanZag fics I've written: [See in the Water](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26775616), a oneshot about being in love and vibrators, and [The Light of Hidden Flowers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28155462/chapters/68989320), a two-chapter fic about Than & vulnerability.
> 
> [Asphodel](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Asphodelus) is a large, flowering plant. From what I understand, its connection to the Underworld stems in part from its colors and in part due to its use as food. Persephone has apparently been depicted wearing it as a garland.
> 
> The situation with Halirrhothius will be explained further in the text for anyone unfamiliar with the myth he's from. So, I would say not looking him up will add some surprise, but if you want some dramatic irony in your life, go ahead. Please be aware there's sexual assault mentioned (it will not be delved into in this fic, but it is part of the myth).
> 
> Like I mentioned last chapter: [Chitons](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chiton_\(costume\)) are the little single-shoulder tunics. Chitoniskoi (sing. chitoniskos) were the short chitons. I think they're the closest equivalent to what Zag wears. [Himations](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Himation) (or himatia) were more like a wrap or mantle and usually worn over a chiton, but sometimes worn on its own.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Here, lean back,” the man whispers, hand moving to Zag’s jaw and cupping it gently.
> 
> Zagreus allows himself to be guided until his head meets smooth tile, fighting all the while against the urge to nuzzle against his hand. He knows himself well enough that it’s unsurprising that he’s craving touch this way, but his willingness to accept and even take that comfort from a faceless stranger is another matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Selling all my ancient idols,  
> I worship the new god: before his altar  
> I bring the mythic fruits of distant lands  
> and cast the loot of ocean-sepulchres.  
>  _Eros of Ebony_ by Clark Ashton Smith

As the awe and fear of the night fade, Zagreus’ exhaustion intensifies. Sleep is right there, coaxing him towards oblivion, but the drag of his feet along the floor keeps him from giving in entirely. Even then, he loses a few moments to a quiet darkness, lulled by the stranger’s touch and steady voice. Next thing he knows, they’re in a dimly lit room and the air is warm with steam, though it’s not stifling. Zag makes a questioning noise and the stranger hushes him, ushering him to sit.

He drags his fingertips along the edge of the bench upon which he rests, feeling the well-worn wood. In the midst of a dream-like palace of gold and gems, it’s grounding in its normalcy. He takes a shuddering breath—it feels like his first in years.

“Here, lean back,” the man whispers, hand moving to Zag’s jaw and cupping it gently.

Zagreus allows himself to be guided until his head meets smooth tile, fighting all the while against the urge to nuzzle against his hand. He knows himself well enough that it’s unsurprising that he’s craving touch this way, but his willingness to accept and even take that comfort from a faceless stranger is another matter.

He’s interacted with very few people other than his mother: a handful of nymphs eternally loyal to Persephone, and the occasional mortal wandering through the woods. Each time, he felt a buzzing mixture of excitement and fear, and he feels it now, but it’s not quite the same. It reminds him of the familiarity he feels with the Alseids which tempers his sense of anxiety, but that familiarity came after years and years of interaction.

This god ensconced in darkness has eyes so affectional, a touch so emotive, and a voice so moving it’s easy to feel close to him. It’s as if they’ve fallen into some natural pull like that which conducts the moon around and around the earth. Is it because of Zagreus’ Chthonic blood? Is some innate part of him reaching out to a fellow deity?

“There,” the stranger says. His fingers graze the point where Ares held Zag’s jaw, his eyes narrowing when Zag flinches from the pain. “I’m so sorry. I should have been more careful.” He oh-so-gently squeezes Zag’s shoulder in apology, and Zag answers by resting his hand over the man’s own. “You’re doing so well. It’s going to be okay, sweetheart.”

Zag’s cheeks flush. The words kindle a fragile pleasure in his chest that he hoards away, afraid to lose it but also to examine it.

The stranger moves to take his hand from Zag’s, but Zag’s hold reflexively tightens. “Wait,” he croaks.

He waits.

Forcing his eyes open takes tremendous effort, but Zag manages it. The man is crouched before him so they’re eye-to-eye, his pall alight with dusky pinks and silvery blues. There’s still a butterfly crawling along his head. Beyond him is a sheer curtain drawn back to reveal a room of marble and crystal. At its center is a raised pool from which steam rises.

“I don’t know your name,” Zagreus murmurs.

“I can’t tell you that.” He turns his hand to hold Zagreus’ and strokes his thumb along his knuckles. “I’m very sorry.”

“Why not?”

“Ah…” He ducks his head and the butterfly lifts from the shadows surrounding him, circles, and finds another perch on his shoulder. “As I said before, it’s necessary for our safety that you don’t know.”

“How—How could knowing threaten my safety? Or yours? I just mean… Ares knows who you are. So…”

“Sweet—Zagreus. Zagreus, it’s… very difficult to explain, but…”

“It’s okay,” Zag mumbles, “if you’d like to call me that.”

The steady brush of his thumb over Zagreus’ knuckles falters. “All right.”

“But I need to know what to call you.”

“I—Well, I suppose you may call me what you wish.” There’s a way he has about him, his eyes crinkling and voice warming as if he’s smiling and laughing good-naturedly without actually doing so; Zag likes it.

Zag frowns. “Don’t you have a nickname at least?”

“None safe for me to impart, I’m afraid.”

Humming, Zagreus relaxes his grip. “I’ll have to think about it then.”

“I eagerly await your conclusion. For now, I’m going to retrieve some supplies. You just stay here, all right?”

“Oh, wait…” Zagreus clings to him once more. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he stutters, “I’m—Could you help me?”

“Of course,” he says swiftly. “What do you need?”

“My feet—something’s wrong.”

Brow furrowing, the stranger leans closer. “I see. Do you want me to take off your boots?”

“Yes, please.” Then, because his cheeks are already burning with it, he admits, “I’m sorry, I’m only… I would do it myself, but I’m a bit afraid.” He tries to laugh it off, but the noise is taut with anxiety.

“Don’t be afraid,” he urges, cradling Zagreus’ hand between his own. “I know this is a strange experience, but I promise, there’s nothing wrong with your feet—there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Zagreus studies the fine lines of bronze, silver, and gold defining the stranger’s expression. His eyes drift from the tension at his forehead to the pout of his lips and down, to the butterfly sat upon his shoulder.

Zag nods weakly.

“Don’t worry.” He gives Zag’s hand one last squeeze before drawing away.

He kneels before Zagreus. When his fingers find the laces of Zag’s boots, Zag shuts his eyes. His heart is beating so hard and fast he feels as if he's being rocked by it. The man makes quick work of the first boot, careful even where he’s swift. Zagreus focuses on the rasp of the laces and the fluctuations in pressure along his skin.

Sleep is at the ready, creeping at the edge of his consciousness. It’s difficult for him to recall why he’s supposed to stay awake. Giving in would be easier, certainly, and save him some fear, but the attention of the stranger, while soothing, makes him feel somewhat embarrassed. He’s shown so much weakness already and continues to now. To fall asleep would only add to that.

The man grunts. His hands falter, then pull away.

Zag’s eyes fly open, but he still doesn’t look down, instead focusing on the man’s expression. “What’s wrong?”

His lips part, but he pauses. He looks Zagreus over as if searching for something. “It was a bit hot.”

“I’m so sorry,” Zagreus chokes out, jerking his feet back. His face burns and he can’t bring himself to meet the man’s eyes. “I can finish it. I’m so sorry.”

“No, no,” he’s quick to murmur. He touches Zag’s calf. “It’s all right. It’s my fault for underestimating the heat.” He hooks his hand behind Zag’s leg, easing it back to its original position. “It’s all right.”

Zag swallows thickly. Wipes at his eyes. “Ah, I-I’m not sure how to stop… it.”

“I may have an idea.” He smiles—a lopsided little thing that cracks Zag’s heart open. “I believe your mother has used a spell to conceal some of your father’s traits.” Red sparks drift across his face and down his throat. “Something must have interfered with the spell to lead to this revelation, but I’m unsure what.”

“Physical traits, but also others?” Zag’s brow knits. “That’s how I resurrected that man? Through some suppressed power newly unleashed?”

He nods. “There’s no way for me to know for sure, but that’s my theory. Now, we need to determine how the spell works. This,” he says, squeezing Zag’s calf, “should have fully manifested when you left if it was a matter of your home being enchanted. I believe it’s still partially concealed, however—this isn’t quite like your father’s and it’s, well, it could be that you don’t know how to control it yet, but I believe it shouldn’t be this hot.”

Zag’s stomach churns. “But it is meant to be aflame nevertheless?”

“Ah, yes. It’s… an internal flame of sorts. It will make more sense if you see it for yourself,” he murmurs. As he speaks, his eyes rove over Zagreus’ form, once more inflicting their strange power upon him, pinning him in place. “The point is this: I don’t believe an enchantment has been directly applied to your person, but rather that you possess something bespelled. Is there an object or…” His eyes settle at Zagreus’ throat.

Anxiety prickles up his spine. His teeth ache from how hard he’s gritting them.

“Your necklace—was it a gift from your mother?”

Trembling, Zagreus reaches for the pom pendant but can’t bring himself to touch it, fingers hovering there, unsteady. He’s brought back to that forest where he stood, gazing out at the sea as he was torn asunder by his need to see his mother and to cling to some level of deniability. He must move forward, but the only way to do so is to address the truth of his current position and his mother’s role in it.

“Zagreus…” Cool fingers graze the back of Zag’s calf. The stranger’s eyes have gone tender again, their color exactly the same as warmed honey. “I can’t remove your shoes further without burning my fingers. But I think taking off your necklace may help, and it’s something that will need to be done eventually, for your sake.”

As it’s never happened before, Zagreus is unsure of what to do when faced with knowledge he fears. Perhaps this is his punishment for chasing after answers as wretched as those he’s longed for since he first beheld death. He will bear witness to all he’s ever wanted and carry the weight of knowing his hubris is the source of his suffering.

His eyes burn.

“You can keep it,” the man coaxes. “We don’t have to destroy it. All you have to do is take it off. I’ll put it somewhere safe, I promise.”

“Okay. Okay, I’ll…”

Avoiding the pendant, Zagreus feels along the chain until he finds the clasp. It takes him a moment to undo given his shaking, but eventually, he manages it. He holds it to his chest for a moment more, focusing on the blood-warm heat of the metal. For the first time in his life, he draws the pendant from his skin and passes it to the stranger’s waiting hands. The two of them linger, both knowing that there’s no turning back once Zag pulls away.

“It’s okay,” the man whispers, eyes so very bright and veil awash with gold. “It’s going to be okay.”

Zagreus holds his gaze as he slowly withdraws his hand, watching as the stranger’s eyes widen. Electricity flickers beneath Zag’s skin, surging from his fingertips to his spine, then down, down, down. He gasps, arching off the wall, toes curling. His pulse roars in his ears. Heat surges from his toes, along the arch of his feet, and crisscrosses his shins. His skin itches and tingles in its wake. His eyes ache. He claws at the bench.

As quickly as it begins, it ends. He collapses against the wall, sucking in great, heaving breaths.

“Zagreus?” His voice is sharp with his alarm. “Can you speak?”

“Uh, uh-huh…” He reaches out to the stranger instinctively, but quickly catches himself, concealing the movement the best he can.

“Are you in pain?”

He shakes his head. “It hurt, but-but no. Not right now. It’s just—” He presses his hand to his chest. “Feels like my chest is going to burst.”

“Keep breathing. You’re doing so well.” The man takes a dramatic, slow breath, guiding Zagreus to mimic him.

They stay like that, breathing together until Zagreus’ heart slows and the clench of his ribs releases. Zagreus melts, head lolling. He’s both more awake and more exhausted than before, adrenaline burning him up inside despite the heaviness of his body.

“It worked,” the stranger tells him, relief clear in his voice. “I’ll set your necklace next to you, for now. Is that all right? I’ll put it somewhere safe when I finish removing your boots.”

Zag’s throat is tight. He nods.

“All right.” There’s a soft clink and then the man rests his hands on the backs of Zag’s legs, his touch light. “All right,” he echoes as if searching for some way to fill the silence.

Cracking his eyes open, Zag asks, “Do I look very different?”

The stranger’s expression softens. “Not very, no.”

“You’re sure?”

“It’s only…” He reaches up as if to cup Zag’s jaw again but hesitates. “This eye,” he continues, motioning to the right. “The color changed.” He withdraws, his smile like moonlight and silk. “It’s striking, yes, but I don’t think you’ll mind it. Let me finish this, then I can bring you a mirror.”

“All right.”

His lips twitch upwards. With that, he returns to Zagreus’ boots, untying the laces with more caution than before.

Zag keeps his gaze on the butterfly where it remains on the man’s shoulder. Its wings glimmer like burnished gold when the light hits them just right. It’s unlike anything he’s ever seen before and the loveliest of distractions.

The man moves to the next boot, casting the ruined leather aside.

“The butterflies… They’re mortal souls?” Zagreus asks quietly.

He hums, slowing. “Yes, they are.” He watches Zag out of the corner of his eye.

“Oh… Is that why they’re so beautiful?”

He stops moving entirely. “You’re taking this remarkably well.”

“What? That they’re souls? I knew about that— _psyche_ , right? It’s not a surprise.”

There’s a dry scrape of leather against leather as he pulls a lace free from an eyelet. His eyes dip. “Did your mother tell you about the Underworld?”

“Only a little. I asked her for scrolls and other things when she couldn’t sate my curiosity herself. I was always far more interested in this realm than those above,” he chuckles. “I suppose it makes sense now.”

After a breath, he extends his hand to the butterfly, fingers held soft—inviting. He half expects to scare the dear thing off, but instead, its delicate little tongue tickles across his skin followed by one leg and then another. Oh so slowly, he draws the soul to his chest so he can better study the eyes etched across its wings.

The man stops again.

“If I were to die,” Zag asks, studying the blue-flame shimmer of its wings, “would my soul look the same?”

“It would… It would take the form of a butterfly, at least at first. It wouldn’t look the same, as no two souls do. But they always take the form of a butterfly until they make it here.” He pulls a lace from another eyelet. “The butterflies you see now have chosen to stay in this form; they may take the shape of their mortal selves at any time, but… some prefer this. Some change as they please.”

Zagreus grins so broadly, his cheeks ache. “There’s something quite reassuring about that.”

“No need to be sarcastic,” he mutters and yanks at the laces.

“What? No! I mean it!” Zagreus returns his attention to the figure, frowning at the harsh lines of silver riddling his face. “I’m not mocking you or your home,” he insists. “I mean it. After the night I’ve had, the thought of-of this—such a peaceful existence…” He sits up only for his vision to swim. “ _Oh_.” He falls back with a grunt.

The man’s head pops up. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, yeah… Just dizzy.”

He sighs. “You need to rest.” His words are clipped.

Zag’s chest feels cold. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.” He lifts the butterfly, watching as it tastes the salt on his skin. “I mean it when I say I find it beautiful. And hopeful. A hopeful, peaceful end.”

The man’s pace slows. “I’m… I apologize. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. You didn’t deserve that. You have nothing to apologize for.”

The butterfly finally lifts from Zag’s hand and returns to the stranger’s hair. Zag smiles.

“There.” The man slips the leather from Zag’s leg and casts it aside. “Does it feel better?” He rests his hand on his ankle.

Zag’s hands flex. “Does that not hurt? Is it not—” He struggles to find the right words. “Does it not burn?”

“No. It’s quite warm, yes, but not as hot as it was. I’m sturdy enough that it doesn’t do any harm.” His smile is etched in moonlight. “I’ll get a hand mirror so you can see your eye, all right?”

“Oh, ye-yeah. Thank you.”

“And do you have a preference for a chiton or achiton? If you’d like both a chiton and a himation, that’s quite all right, too. I have some leggings, but I doubt they would fit you properly.”

“A chiton and a himation, if you don’t mind.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Oh, what length?”

“I believe I only have chitoniskoi. Will that be sufficient?” His thumb drifts along the inside of his foot.

Zagreus can feel the touch, but not as clearly as he can when he strokes his calf. It brings a sour taste to his mouth. He’ll never be able to feel the grass between his toes or sink them into the sand at the shore. Hell, he’s liable to destroy anything he steps on, even if the heat has lessened. How will he rest at night? Must he hang his feet off the end of the bed? It’s such a ridiculous thought in the midst of all this strangeness he almost laughs but manages to stifle himself at the last minute. What else has he lost?

He can still see clearly, but what happened to his eye? His eyes—his mother’s eyes. He’s lost one now. He’s lost the face he’s known since childhood. It’s only an eye, and yet he finds himself questioning if he’ll be able to recognize himself at all in the end.

“Zagreus?”

He blinks, shaking off his thoughts. “Sorry, what?”

“I only have chitoniskoi. Is that all right, or would you prefer an achiton?”

“I prefer chitoniskoi. Thank you.”

The man strokes his ankle one last time before taking the necklace from the bench and standing. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

He shifts as if to step away, but hesitates. He glances down at Zagreus, the look in his eyes and the soft purple haze of the pall indecipherable. Just before Zagreus can work up the nerve to ask if everything’s okay, the man scoops the butterfly from his shoulder as if he’s done it a thousand times before and holds it out.

Zagreus takes the offering instinctively, mind moving so slow he only questions the man’s purposes when he’s already disappeared from the room, leaving Zagreus to watch the little soul flutter its wings. Will it keep an eye on him in some way? It’s still a person, after all, just in a different form. Perhaps it’s a helper or even friends with the nameless man.

For a soul to be so close to him, could he be Charon? One who ferries spirits could easily befriend one, Zagreus reasons. Charon could also make sense for he’s one of the few Chthonic gods to travel to the surface, or at least close to it.

“Who’s your friend, Psyche?” he asks, holding the butterfly up to the light. “Perhaps that’s what I’ll call him, given he’s surrounded by you and your fellows. Do you think he’d mind a feminine name? I don’t think it matters all that much, but to some it does.”

The soul crawls across his knuckles.

“Naming someone is a great responsibility—I’m not sure I’m up to the task.”

A snorting laugh has Zagreus nearly jumping off the bench. Disturbed, the butterfly lifts from his hand and drifts up and away.

“Ah, sorry,” the man says, schooling his voice once more. In his arms is a bundle of dark clothing and, on top, the silver glint of a mirror. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Zagreus is once more overcome by a blush. “I was… a little caught up.”

The butterfly settles itself on the man’s head.

He steps closer and holds out the bundle.

A familiar need to know seizes Zag’s heart, and yet he doesn’t take it immediately, for the fear is there, too. He must do this—he _must_. In the end, all that stands between him and the truth is himself. There’s no room for cowardice.

When Zagreus continues to hesitate, the stranger says, “I don’t suppose your conversation was a fruitful one.”

Zagreus snaps out of it. “Oh, no, it was rather one-sided.” He fumbles to take the proffered clothing, surprised by how heavy the mirror is and how unsteady his hands are.

The man ends up catching the mirror just before it falls.

Zag winces. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for.” He sets the mirror by Zag’s side. “Did I hear correctly? I have a new name?”

With a lopsided grin, Zag strokes his hands across the himation he’s been given. It’s finer than any clothing he owns, which is a bit intimidating, but the promise of clean clothes is enough to push his anxiety aside. “Psyche,” he says firmly. “I will call you Psyche. Or Psy, maybe.”

Psyche huffs out a little laugh warm enough to reassure Zagreus that no, he doesn’t mind. “I suppose it’s fitting enough.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

Another laugh—fuller this time. Shooting Zagreus a starlight smile, Psyche turns to the rest of the room. Zagreus watches as he ducks past the curtains to enter the wider space, intrigued by the way the pall shivers when he brushes the fabric.

“I wasn’t thinking,” he says as explanation. “You’ll heal quickly free of the enchantment, I suspect, but I should still clean that cut before you change.”

Zag brushes the edge of the scrape on his arm, scrunching his nose at the pain. “It’s not that bad.”

“Nonsense,” he says simply and heads to a trunk set against the far wall.

Zagreus’ attention returns to the mirror. Psyche sat it face down. Zag’s chest tightens. It’s very beautiful, as all things here seem to be: It’s made of gold, bright and shining even in the low light, with impressions of flowers and vines curling around the handle. Zag sets the bundle of clothes on the bench. He carefully touches the handle, surprised by how cold the metal is. Holding it up to the light, he admires its artistry for want of a distraction—some excuse to procrastinate further.

“You don’t have to.”

Zag looks up to meet Psy’s eyes. “What?”

“You don’t have to look,” he murmurs. “If you aren’t ready.”

“Oh…” Stomach churning, Zagreus rubs his thumb along the delicate lines of a bellflower. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“And… I want you to be honest with me. Don’t worry about my feelings.”

He makes a sharp noise. “I’m not sure I can agree to that. The honesty, yes, to a degree. But—”

“Wait—Wait, let me… Hear me out first.” Zag looks up at him and finds him standing there, a damp cloth and roll of bandages held close to his chest. “I-I fear I’ve made a poor impression. That… That I must seem very cowardly.”

“ _No_. What are you talking about?” His voice is sharp with his indignance, but also a sort of shock Zagreus didn’t expect. Before he can respond, Psyche comes to sit next to him, eyes narrowed. “You think I could possibly find you _cowardly_ after witnessing you face _Ares_?”

Zagreus looks away, pressing the mirror to his thighs. “I didn’t _face_ him. Besides, I wasn’t fishing for a compliment. I’m being sincere.”

“As am I.”

“I hardly did a thing. I _ran_. I ran, and that’s… How is that not craven and-and—”

“No. You were brave and smart. Don’t mistake your intelligence for cowardice. Running was simply the smart thing to do. What you _needed_ to do. And you were brave enough to do it—to run and not give up, even as you were faced with so many unknowns.”

Zag shakes his head and wipes at his eyes.

“Zagreus,” he chides. He frees one hand in favor of stroking Zag’s shoulder. “You were brave. You acted swiftly and intelligently. You may not be able to see that, but I do. And I hope that, come tomorrow, when you’ve rested, you’ll be able to see it, too.”

Zagreus does his best to hold back his sobs, but they’re unrelenting, and he can only do so much. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice wet and raw, each word torn from his chest. “I’m sorry.”

Psyche hushes him and pets along Zag’s spine. “There’s nothing to apologize for… It’s okay… Let it out, sweetheart…”

“Can—” He holds his hand over his eyes. “I’ve… Can I hug you?”

Strong arms are around him immediately. “There,” he whispers, cupping the back of Zag’s head to guide him to tuck his face against his throat where the pall tickles his lips and cheeks. “Let it out. It’s okay.”

Zagreus reaches into the smoke to curl his fingers in the man’s chiton. “I-I don’t know why I’m—It’s just—There’s so much.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” he murmurs. “You don’t need to explain yourself. Just let me know if you need anything.”

“Don’t—Please don’t stop.” Zagreus burrows closer.

“I won’t. Not unless you ask me to.” He combs his fingers through Zag’s hair. “I’ll help in any way I can.”

“Thank you,” he croaks. “Thank you.”

Psy settles his hand at the back of his head and he drags his thumb along the curve of his skull. He rests his cheek against the Zag’s hair. His other hand finds Zag’s bicep, squeezing gently. “You went through many trials last night, and you continue to face them now. You’ve been brave and strong— _you have_. Fear doesn’t make you cowardly or weak—fear is natural. What has proven your strength is your willingness to push past that.”

A sob racks his body. The tears come heavier.

“I think you’re brave,” he says, voice a mere rumble. “I think you’re quite brave.”

Zagreus bites his lips to hold back the cries that want to spill forth.

Psy hushes him, rocking him in his arms. To be treated with such tenderness in the wake of so much cruelty tears something open in Zag’s chest. He feels raw and bloody with it, as if he’s nothing more than a fresh wound. Each touch is a sweet brutality and he presses closer in search of more.

He wants his mother and her summer-breeze embrace and yet the thought of her has bile rising in his throat. For so long he was the son of Persephone, a demigod more mortal than lord. But who is he now? What is he? He feels like a stranger to his own body. It’s as if he’s stepped into another’s life, taking their place without warning. And he can never go back. He can never return to the home he once knew and curl up in the asphodel, for he now knows why their sweet scent and whispers are so calming to him. He can never look at his mother the same way again. His feet, his eye—parts of his very form have become alien to him.

“It will be okay,” Psyche breathes. “It will be okay.”

Zagreus wants to scream. How can he know? What right does he have to say that when he refuses to reveal the truth of his face and name—when he refuses to tell Zagreus the name of his father?

Taking an aching, shuddering breath, Zagreus rends himself from Psyche’s arms. Psy makes a high, questioning noise, but releases him without protest. Zagreus almost wishes he had fought him—had given him some reason to be angry, to distrust him. His fear and hurt are evolving into a tender rage and he needs an outlet, some way to expel all of this toxicity building in his blood.

He’s shaking terribly, but he takes up the mirror nonetheless, gripping it until his knuckles are white. He turns it, facing himself for the millionth and the first time, and freezes. He stares and stares.

The anger seeps away like water swallowed by the earth.

“Zagreus?”

“Oh,” he mumbles. “It’s…” He touches his cheek. “It’s like poppies.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

Zagreus blinks, half expecting it to fade in the darkness like a dream, but when he opens his eye, it’s there: stark as blood and jewels. “I didn’t expect…”

Psyche carefully takes the mirror from Zag’s hands, holding it in his stead. “It’s exactly the same as your father’s.”

He watches the tears well in his eyes—watches himself blink them away. “Truly?”

“Yes, truly.”

Brushing Psyche’s hand and the mirror aside, Zagreus leans forward to finally look at his feet. Their inner fire burns golden-bright at the soles and quickly softens into the colors at the heart of an ember. He lifts one. Wiggles his toes. They glow in the dim light. Hesitantly, he draws his knee to his chest. With a single finger, he feels along his shin where the light fades, blending into his skin. It’s warm but doesn’t burn. His fingers drift lower and lower, testing the heat of the brighter parts to find that even they are merely unpleasantly warm, not harmful.

“Also your father’s,” Psyche reiterates.

Zagreus lowers his foot to the floor, watching it shoot off mild sparks when it touches the tile.

It’s felt as if so much has been taken from him and in such a short time, he’s ignored everything he’s been given: his father’s eye, his father’s feet, a truth he’s long missed. He has his mother’s eye, still. He has his mother’s smile. She’s still there in the wrinkle of his nose and the faintest of freckles along his arms. Only now he knows that perhaps the reason he never grew pleasantly golden beneath the sun like his mother and at best pinkened is certainly because of his Chthonic father.

He laughs, falling back again, his momentary burst of energy gone. “I feel quite silly now.”

“You had good reason to be nervous given your feet were burning anything they touched.”

Zagreus outright cackles. “It’s—Heavens, it’s really absurd, isn’t it? All of it, I mean.”

With a huff of a laugh, he concedes, “It has been a rather odd turn of events.”

“I—” He giggles, wiping more tears from his eyes. “Thank you for your patience.”

“You deserve that and more.”

Zagreus turns to him. Psyche carefully avoids his gaze, his pall hazy with curls of pink as he turns the mirror over in his hands.

“You don’t even know me,” Zag says faintly, not with any venom, but rather curiosity. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m thankful for everything you’ve done. I just… Even if you need me to protect the Underworld and your loved ones, you’ve… you’ve shown me, a total stranger, such immense kindness.”

He hums. “Were I in your position…” He turns the mirror again. Again. Catches the light of his eyes in its reflection. “Lest you think me too benign, I must confess when I realized what happened I wanted to throttle you myself.”

That shocks a spear of laughter from Zag’s throat.

His lips twitch. “Certainly not like Lord Ares—that is to say, literally throttle you, but… give you a good talking to, at the very least. And make no mistake, once you’re good and well, you will hear all about respecting the bounds of death and life.”

“I don’t think you need to worry about me doing that again. Being chased by the God of War taught me my lesson.”

“You’re a stubborn one,” he scoffs. Then, quickly as if worried he’s spoken out of turn, he explains, “That much was obvious by your escape.”

“You mistake being mad with fear for bravery and stubbornness.”

“Certainly not. You simply think too little of yourself. I saw you throw snow in Ares’ face.”

Zag’s smile falters. “You did? But—How could you have seen that? I was alone with Ares—he had even killed the man when…”

Psyche goes rigid. “Ah, I…” He faces forward, refusing to meet Zagreus’ gaze.

“You were there,” he says slowly, heedful of each word. Given his awareness of the killing, resurrection, and the parts played by both Ares and Zagreus, it was obvious Psyche witnessed some of the exchange and after that, he followed Zagreus, but the fact he was there from the start has vastly different implications. “You saw.”

As painful as it is, Zagreus thinks back to yesterday’s events. He focuses on the moment when he stumbled upon Ares’ victim lying alongside his path, his blood spread through the snow drawing Zag’s eye. Zag fell to his knees, hands pressed to the ragged wound across the man’s chest, unsure of what to do. And as quickly as his hand met torn flesh, the man was arching off the ground, gasping and thrashing like a fish out of water. Zagreus had merely thought he discovered the man half-alive until he was grabbed by the hair and yanked back just far enough to watch as a makhaira was driven through the man’s throat.

He was so full of fear, would he have even noticed Psyche, especially if he was enveloped in shadow? He doubts it. And given his pall, Zagreus wouldn’t be surprised if he could render himself completely invisible.

“Ares said he was expecting you… because someone fell? If being wedded to you would grant me some sway over death, or so our ruse goes, then…” Zagreus holds his tongue.

 _My friend_ , Ares said.

Charon, he thinks. Must this be the dark boatman then? Sent to retrieve a soul to guide down the river? Ares would know him from their overlap: Ares drawing forth souls and Charon sweeping them away. That would explain the familiarity with which Ares greeted him and more.

_Lord Ares wouldn’t dare hurt me._

“You were there to retrieve his soul. That’s how you saw me flee.”

“Zagreus…” He sounds wary—almost _afraid_. But why should he fear this? What’s so dangerous about this knowledge? He practically hunches in on himself as if to hide—as if _ashamed_. The pall is dark like a night sky laden with solemn clouds.

“You… You were to retrieve his soul, and thus when I resurrected him, I not only caused Ares trouble I… I got in the way of your work.”

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move.

Zagreus reigns in his lips before he goes further. Perhaps this is Charon, or perhaps it’s some other entity he’s never heard of. It’s difficult to say, given how little he knows of the situation and the Underworld in general. That said, he knows without a doubt that Psyche is tied to souls and was there to retrieve that of the man Ares killed—nothing can convince him otherwise. But, as loathe as he is to do it given his curiosity, he sees he must drop this chain of questioning. Psyche’s reaction is enough to tell him that his reticence is not some attempt to manipulate or wield power over Zagreus, but rather inspired by true anxiety of something beyond Zag’s scope.

“I’m sorry,” Zagreus says, itching to reach out to him. “For causing you such trouble. And for pushing. I’ve disrespected your boundaries, and for that, I’m truly sorry.”

Psyche shakes his head. Silver drops sprinkle across his shadow. “Please, I…” He swallows and swipes a hand through his hair, stirring the smoke around him until it resembles a halo. “You confuse me. You confuse me terribly.”

Zagreus clenches his fists.

“We can discuss this more tomorrow,” he mutters, voice stiff. He fumbles with the damp rag, clearly looking for something to do. “For now, let me take care of your wounds.”

“Okay… That’s fair. Thank you.”

He nods. The silver spots circle like hawks across the pall. He wraps and unwraps the rag around his fingers.

Psyche takes the shawl from Zagreus’ shoulders and winds it around his own until it disappears under the pall. Zag runs his tongue along the back of his teeth and does his best not to stare as Psy turns his attention to the wound. He dabs at it as lightly as he can, murmuring apologies all the while. Zag waves him off, drifting despite the prickles of pain. It’s nothing really, just a scrape, but all the little pains are adding up from his scalp to his overworked legs.

“I don’t have many medicines,” Psy says as if picking up on his thoughts. “I doubt this wound will get infected, at least.”

Zag hums. “It will be fine.”

“My—Ah, my associate may have some pain relievers but… they are likely rather strong for this,” he says wryly.

“Oh?” Zag grins. “Opium?”

“All sorts of things,” he mutters and sets aside the bloody rag. “Opium, cannabis—plants of that nature. I’ll see if he has willow, though. And there’s wine in the kitchen, now that I think about it. That should help you sleep at least.”

“It’s not that bad, but willow and wine sound quite nice.”

Psy nods and takes up the woolen bandages. “Hold out your arm.” He’s firmer with this, ensuring the dressing is sufficiently tight. “It’s not cutting off your circulation, is it?”

Zag brushes his fingers along the edge. “Oh, no. It feels comfortable.” He smiles at him. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” He fidgets with the bandage, glancing this way and that. “I’m not overstepping, am I? By doing these things?”

“What? No, I appreciate it. How I feel now… You were right earlier: I feel faint, really. I keep thinking I should be able to do this and that, but my head spins when I move too quickly. I keep drifting off,” he adds with a laugh. “I’m not being a bother, am I?”

“No, no,” Psyche says softly and meets his gaze. “This is the least I can do. I fear I’m not helping enough, honestly. I’m not… accustomed to this. I’m rather unused to, well, interacting with others in general but particularly those above,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You’re the first god I’ve interacted with other than my mother. Sometimes the nymphs would visit or I’d encounter a mortal, but… we’re the same in that respect.”

The corners of his mouth tick upwards. “Then we’ll learn together.”

Zag grins in return. “Sounds good.”

Psyche stands. “Would you… Before you change, would you like help cleaning up further?” His hands flutter about and pink spreads across the pall like a blush. “The, ah, mud on your knees and…”

“You don’t mind?”

“No,” he murmurs. “No, I don’t mind at all.”

“Please.”

Psyche hurries off.

Zagreus doesn’t like relying so heavily upon a stranger, or anyone other than his mother, really, but he knows he’s liable to fall over if he tries to do it himself. He’s certain he’ll have a chance to return Psyche’s kindness in some way, even if he’s unsure what shape that kindness will take. If Psyche has such a fine home, does he have servants to clean and cook for him? Zagreus can help in some ways, even if he does. Perhaps he can patch his clothes or help with whatever garden the butterflies flock to. He’ll find a way.

Returning with another wet cloth, Psyche settles on his knees before Zagreus again. “This is all right?”

Zagreus’ cheeks prickle with heat. He nods.

Psyche wipes away the damp and drying mud smeared around Zag’s knees. The cloth is warm and Psy’s hands are so gentle, it’s harder than ever for Zagreus to hold his eyes open; it’s a wonder he’s made it this far, really. And so, he drifts. The deeper under he goes, the more difficult it is to tell waking from sleep. After all, isn’t it more believable that he’s dozing in the asphodel than being tended to by a Chthonic god?

“Zagreus,” Psyche murmurs, voice like silver and sweet smoke.

Zagreus can’t tell if it’s butterfly wings or fingertips brushing his cheek. He hums weakly in response and presses his face closer to the touch.

“Do you still want to change? I can take you to bed now and leave the clothes with you for tomorrow.”

“I’ll get your sheets dirty,” he mumbles.

Psy laughs. “Sheets can be washed.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoes. “I’m going to pick you up. I’ll need you to hold onto my neck, all right?”

Zag hums, reaching out without bothering to open his eyes. There’s more breathy laughter, and Psyche’s hands find his, guiding his arms to wind around his shoulders. Zag makes a soft noise as his head is tucked to Psy’s shoulder; he holds on tighter, fingers curled in the soft hood at Psy’s back. The pall tickles across his skin.

“I’ve got you,” Psy breathes, lips against Zag’s hair. He curls an arm around Zag’s back and angles his body to the side to fit the other beneath Zag’s knees. “Is this all right?” he asks once more, waiting until Zagreus hums to scoop him up properly. “There. You can rest now, sweetheart.”

“Thank you,” Zag slurs, pressing his nose to the delicate skin at Psy’s throat. “Thank you…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please consider leaving kudos and a comment ♥ it helps a lot!**
> 
> Thank you all for your support. It really means a lot to me. It's very encouraging.
> 
> [Follow me on Twitter for updates!](https://twitter.com/konigscrusade)
> 
> Not pictured here: Thanatos rushing to take off his gorget in case he needed to carry Zagreus to bed (or got another chance to hug him).
> 
> Reading this to my mom (as I often read sfw bits of my fanfiction to my mom) she was like “Is he always so teary????” so maybe I made Zag too quick to cry, but he’s going through it, so I think it’s not entirely poor characterization. The mouthiness and stubbornness are still there, I promise. Part of the AU in my mind is him feeling less confident in his own abilities and… literally everything else in his life for a number of reasons.
> 
> Alseids are grove nymphs.
> 
> Despite Zagreus being hidden, I didn’t want him to be completely isolated. I think Persephone really would do her best to give him a normal life, thus finding ways for him to interact with nymphs and the like.
> 
> Psyche is a reference to both the butterflies and Psyche from Eros and Psyche. It refers to a soul, and by extension is connected to butterflies.
> 
> This is probably the best way I’ve ever seen it put and I really love it:
> 
> “The word for butterfly in formal Greek is psyche, thought to be the soul of the dead. Ancient Greeks also named the butterfly scolex (“worm”), while the chrysalis – which is the next stage of metamorphosis from a caterpillar – was called nekydallon, meaning “the shell of the dead”. The metamorphosis of the butterfly inspired many to use butterflies as a symbol of the soul’s exit from the body. Thus, the myth of Psyche concomitantly signifies soul and butterfly. It has come to mean the story of the soul coupled with divine eros, but which must nevertheless endure tribulations before achieving immortality.” Source
> 
> Pretty much all of the flowers mentioned throughout the fic are connected to mythology.
> 
> A makhaira is a blade or sword. I think it’s an accurate term for that sword Ares’ carries around? Not sure. We'll pretend.

**Author's Note:**

> **Please consider leaving kudos and a comment ♥ it helps a lot!**


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